Observations and Deductions
by Fairground Soldier
Summary: Sherlock has been going out of his mind, absolutely bored. A text message from Irene sets off a spike of jealousy in John, and soon enough Sherlock loses his ability to observe and accurately read John's mood.  Rated T, mild sexual content: not explicit.


How many days had it been? Four, five? Had a week already passed?

Sherlock stared ahead of himself dully, just barely hearing the words leaving his flatmate's mouth. John was talking, but Sherlock wasn't hearing it. This wasn't unusual.

Huffing in frustration, John gave up and returned to his laptop and logged into his blog. At least his viewers would show him some appreciation and attention. He'd felt this way since Irene had gone. There was an ill feeling sitting in the pit of his stomach, brewing a mess of jealousy that would threaten to erupt at any time. John could only suppress it and attempt to pretend it wasn't there.

It was just the way Sherlock couldn't read Irene, the way the two had this clever exchange between one another-

John simply couldn't compete! Even his attempts to try were way off and Sherlock would spot them in seconds. Grumbling, he scrolled through his blog as if it offered some sort of proper distraction.

Resting his shaggy head against the back of the couch, piercing blue eyes gazed upon the ceiling as Sherlock deduced that his only form of entertainment would be John Watson. Any case that was presented to him was absolutely beneath him. He was no amateur, despite what people may say.

"John!" he chimed, hopping off of the couch to loom behind the short male in the chair, peering over his shoulder at the screen. "That thing is defective," he pointed at the counter, "it's been on that number for ages!" He groaned as if pained by the number, hands going into his curly locks. "I need a good case, John. Something worthy of m-"

"Worthy of my time," John interrupted, mimicking Sherlock. He'd heard this before. He'd heard this a thousand times in the last few days. "You need to find a hobby, something to keep you distracted and interested."

"My cigarettes would do just fine," Sherlock retorted. "I cannot just _find_ a hobby. A hobby has to find me and win me over, it has to be a hobby that suits me as the world's only consulting detective."

Rolling his eyes, the doctor gestured toward Sherlock's violin. "Then play, will you? Your music is more tolerable than your words!"

"Play?" The detective lifted the violin, hugging it to himself like a precious child before holding it away from John. "This is meant for thinking, not for idle boredom! I am _bored_, John, I'm not lost in deep thought-"

He trailed off as the blonde rubbed his temples in favor of retreating toward the kitchen when suddenly, _that_ sound filled the silence.

_Aaah~_

His damned phone. Both Sherlock and John looked up at one another, frozen before scrambling and diving toward the cell phone that perched itself on the table. John dove for the item, but Sherlock had snatched it in time. Barely smirking, the doctor sported a frustrated look as he stood and dusted himself off to regain dignity.

Teasingly, the much taller male held the device above John's head, even waving it a bit. Taunting him was already proving to be more fun than staring at the ceiling.

"Let me see it," John insisted.

An eyebrow quirking, Sherlock stared at his friend. "What for?"

"Sherlock, just give it to me!"

Barely smirking, the detective lowered his arm and placed the phone in his friend's open palm. Immediately, John's eyes scanned over the text message. Something about dinner. He mumbled, dropped the phone onto the couch and wandered into the kitchen wordlessly.

Sherlock lifted his phone to glance over the message himself, then proceeded to ignore it. Hands in his pockets, he followed after John, pausing in the entryway to the kitchen. Something was wrong. John stood over the stove, preparing a pot of tea, nothing unusual. Even still, Sherlock sported a puzzled look.

Instead of being able to note various things about John's posture, the way he held the teapot or how he had one hand curled into a fist, Sherlock was finding him to be - for once - rather unreadable.

? ? ? ? ?

"Stop it!" he shouted, pointing at John accusingly.

The blonde darted his eyes to Sherlock in surprise. "Excuse me? I haven't done a thing!" He then mumbled something inaudible under his breath, opening the fridge to find some milk for his tea.

Stepping over, the detective stood behind John, leaving little to no space between their bodies. Personal space, in this particular moment, ceased to exist. His chest was pressed against the former military man's broad back and he stared down at him, causing the other male to grow rather stiff with discomfort.

John's eyebrows furrowed together and he lifted his head, carefully looking behind himself to meet Sherlock's gaze. "Sherlock, _what_ are you doing?"

"Observing."

"Observing _what_, might I ask!"

"You."

The simple answers were driving him up the wall. "Bloody hell," he groaned, angrily abandoning his place in the kitchen in favor of his bedroom. He sat down heavily, dragging an open palm over his face. What on Earth was Sherlock thinking? To stand so closely without regard, to simply claim he was 'observing John' - he was not an experiment nor a suspect in a case, they were _friends_. "You shouldn't use your powers on me, really," he complained, mostly to himself.

Sherlock entered the room shortly after, stopping when the doctor shouted upon his entrance. "Are you going to dinner with her or _not_?"

"Why would I? We have dinner here."

"Yes, yes, but- I'm not Irene!"

"Precisely," Sherlock answered, nonchalant about the entire thing.

Both males paused after that moment, staring at one another as the entire world seemed to freeze with them. Did an awkward moment just arise, or was it only John feeling that way? Was there nothing to say, or was Sherlock truly at a loss for words?

In that moment, nothing happened. Not a thing.

Slowly, John rose from the bed to take careful steps toward his friend, then held his hand out rather expectantly. Large palm open, awaiting Sherlock's response.

He hesitated, but eventually, the brunette settled his slender hand into the other male's. John's fingers curled around the soft-skinned, thin-fingered hand, his own calloused fingertips somewhat wary of harming him. Following this, another moment of silence.

John and Sherlock didn't move. They stood in that room, holding hands, staring off into space for a good ten or twenty minutes. Neither of them could really recount how much time had passed. Sherlock was tempted to turn his hand to feel the doctor's pulse, but he resisted the urge and instead subconsciously squeezed, instead.

Noting the lack of words, he bent just slightly to try his hand at an awkward kiss to John's cheek. Once he was close enough, however, the blonde had turned his head to brush their lips together. Slightly puckered lips and an unsuspecting detective made for a small peck that Sherlock had not prepared himself for.

He stood up straight, slid his hand away carefully, and then _ran out of the room_.

Like a scared child!

John mentally hit himself over the head as Sherlock jumped onto his chair, knees brought up to his chest in his usual position. Frustrated, John followed after him, now shouting in irritation.

"What was that for? You- you could have politely leaned away, you didn't have to _run_ from me as if I'm sort of stranger or-"

Sherlock reached out, pale hands gripping John's shirt collar, and pulled him down for an experimental kiss. Their lips brushed together once again, this time more clumsily, but both males held it this time- only for a moment, however. The detective turned his head slightly to the side, eyes narrowed. "You shouldn't be so unreadable," he demanded. "You shouldn't leave me in a position where I cannot understand you, John. It is my strength, if I cannot read you then I will not know how to completely behave around you. So, stop it, turn your quirks back on and ... stop hiding from my prying eyes."

This seemed to, somehow, please John. He smiled at the brunette, hand moving into his lucious, curly locks as he dropped into the man's lap. Although heavy, Sherlock didn't seem to mind and refrained from complaining.

The doctor dropped his hand from the other's hair and set both hands on his shoulders, instead. He squeezed a moment, then brought Sherlock forward for yet another kiss, this time to shut him up and to prevent him from moving. Sherlock's hands would begin to shake, as if he was afraid or startled, but he moved his lips against John's to finally respond. His eyes closed in the kiss, melting into the warmth that John's mouth had offered. If the doctor hadn't been so confident, this would have made for a third awkward kiss.

Noting his nervousness, John slowly lowered his hands from Sherlock's shoulders to take each of his hands once more, hoping to still them. As the kiss continued, his method surely worked and both males had grown comfortable enough that they were still. Finally breaking away, Sherlock turned his head to the side to avoid looking John in the eye.

"It's too hot. You're too close," he complained, open palms now pressed against John's chest to urge him off.

"It isn't the physical closeness, Sherlock, it's something else."

"What, John, what could it be? Your body against mine, both of us moving, we've created friction and exchanged body heat. That is why I am hot!"

"It's the intimacy, not being close," John explained, staring at Sherlock with a bit of a smirk. He knew all too well what being close to someone could do to a human body. "You feel heat in your face, is that right?"

"Of course, you were trying to eat it."

"Tingling, hm? In your fingertips and your toes?"

Sherlock crossed his arms, curled his fingers and toes inward and looked aside. "Possibly."

"You feel restless and anxious but you don't want to move. Sherlock, is your lap hot?"

"You were just in it. It's a simple explanation."

Reaching forward, John began to slowly undo the buttons of the detective's shirt. He began with the top buttons, the blue-eyed man looking up toward him in silence. Oh how the light hit his face, how his cheekbones taunted John and begged for little kisses, but he kept focus. John's hands remained steady as he undid each and every button on Sherlock's shirt, sliding it off of his shoulders.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen him shirtless, and he prayed to _God_ that it wouldn't be the last. "Better?"

"No."

Taking the denial as a cue, John lowered himself to his knees and gripped the leather belt that held up Sherlock's trousers. He slid the belt out of the loop and undid it, sliding it off of the male's slender waist. He then proceeded to pop open the button, drag down the zipper, and rid Sherlock of his trousers completely. His boxer-briefs followed suit shortly after.

Then, out of what seemed to be thin air, Sherlock had suddenly wrapped himself in his white sheet, glaring at John as though he'd committed some sort of a crime.

"What, what is it?" John questioned, rather startled by the quick movements.

"This is an unfair situation. I'm nude and you're clothed. Undress!"

Had John known nothing about Sherlock, he would have mistaken him for a sexual deviant. "Wh- all right, all right, but be patient." Grumbling, John did exactly as he was asked. It wasn't that he was self-conscious, but Sherlock's figure made him more self-aware. He wasn't thin with a well-defined bone structure as the detective was. His skin wasn't smooth and soft, it didn't look or feel like ivory as Sherlock's did. He was nothing like the chiseled men in sculptures, he was the opposite, almost.

John rid himself of his sweater, staring down at his own body as it became exposed. His shoulders and back were far more broad than the other's males, and his chest sported hair as opposed to being completely bare. His entire body was littered with scars, and one in particular was the most obvious: the one on his leg. He'd rid himself of his pants as well, by now, and looked up toward Sherlock as if awaiting judgment.

The detective stood up, the sheet still on, and held his arms open. "Come to me," he said, waiting for John to step toward him.

The doctor looked so vulnerable in this moment. In reality, he was. He hadn't expected to expose himself in this way, ever. Like the 'pet' he'd made himself to be, he followed Sherlock's instructions and stepped into his arms. Sherlock had embraced him immediately, the sheet around both of their bodies to hold them together. Like this, pressed up against one another, both males waddled side-ways into Sherlock's bedroom. In one swift movement, they had flopped onto the mattress in unison, their eyes never disconnecting.

John could only smile as he leaned in, beginning to press small, open-mouthed kisses along the detective's neck.

The intimacy was almost too much, but Sherlock forced himself to bear it. He turned his head to the side, rather thankful that John was taking initiative. Lord knows he wasn't ready for that, just yet.

Butterfly kisses continued to grace Sherlock's body as John worked his way to the man's collarbones, shoulders and down his chest. He'd paused a moment or so at a nipple to show it some attention, but ultimately created a trail down Sherlock's stomach and then all the way back up to his lips. John had shifted atop the other man, the fingers of a violinist tangled in his short, blonde hair.

"We can stop," the blonde whispered, reassuringly as he pressed a kiss to the shell of the detective's ear.

"No, no," Sherlock shifted beneath him, blue eyes focused on the military man's face.

John barely smiled, but nodded and whispered carefully to him. "Keep your eyes fixed on me."

Sherlock froze, recognizing the words but he made no effort to acknowledge them verbally. From here, every sense that Sherlock and John possessed was heightened by a tenfold. Their skin had suddenly grown more sensitive and each touch held its own tantalizing bit of torture, leaving them want more and more with each passing second. Sherlock would writhe beneath John, moments after he'd been penetrated, clutching onto him tightly. His nails dug into the doctor's back, his entire body tense with anticipation, a tint of worry and even a bit of pain. It passed, it passed, it passed. The pain subsided as their bodies continued to collide, each man's body glazed with sweat that would glisten in the light.

The air was thick, John could barely breathe as his body continued to meet with Sherlock's. Gasping, he would try to utter a few words.

"Sherlock, I-"  
>"S-Sherlock, Sherlock,"<p>

Groaning, Sherlock would try to respond.

"M-more, John-"

"John-!"

But the words would be reduced to simple grunts, groans, moans and even screams.

His curls had tossed around as he shifted against the mattress, as his head was thrown back in overwhelming pleasure, as John would grip it and pull him into a passionate kiss that threatened to steal their lives-

The entire experience would prove to be confusing for him. He sported, at times, a bewildered expression- particularly when John would angle himself and hit a bundle of nerves deep inside of him. Sherlock's body had never been put under these circumstances, he'd never felt so much _pleasure_ that he wanted to scream or cry or beg for mercy. Remember, he'd never begged for mercy before tonight-

But John would continue without respite.

Both men would lay beside one another, exhausted, and spent. Sherlock's arms were tight around the doctor, holding onto him as his face pressed against the man's shoulder. A moment or so passed and John attempted to squirm from discomfort, the boney figure digging into his skin. This warranted a glare from Sherlock, the detective only holding him tighter as a punishment.

Suddenly, he realized something that left him smirking. He was now able to read John again. "Messy hair, pleased expression. Enjoyed it. Wants more. Exhausted from performance, not from age. Nostalgic, the experience means something to you. Protective, possessive, the way your arms are around my waist show that you don't plan to let go."

John's eyes widened and he attempted to roll away from the detective, though unable to. "Just shut up and sleep, Sherlock! Shut up and sleep!"

Once John could no longer see him, Sherlock smiled to himself and would no longer stir. Both men would calmly drift off into a state of sleep, lying side by side, as they'd hope to do again some day.


End file.
